


When in Hapes

by Mengde



Series: Sith Apprentice: Darth Venge [13]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Gen, Polyamory, Sith Obi-Wan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8108074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mengde/pseuds/Mengde
Summary: Siri Tachi has been asked to go on a diplomatic mission with Padmé, Dormé, and the Jedi Knight Aayla Secura.  Their destination: the Hapes Consortium, a matriarchial, isolationist, and very powerful independent faction with which Lord Admiral Thrawn hopes to ally.Things get complicated barely an hour in.





	1. An Auspicious Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Re-Entry Official Timeline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/913029) by [flamethrower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower). 



> Welcome to the next installment of the Sith Apprentice: Darth Venge series! Just to recap, Venge is no longer a Sith, a Darth, or an Apprentice, and in fact he probably won't make an appearance in this story.
> 
> We're clearly in good hands, here.
> 
> As always, credit goes to flamethrower for originally creating the character of Darth Venge in her Re-Entry series. Enjoy!

“So,” Siri Tachi observed as four muscular, beautiful, revealingly-clad men worked together to massage her shoulders, legs, and feet.  “This is politics.”

Across the room, dressed in a fluffy white robe like Siri’s and undergoing similar ministrations, Padmé made an affirmative noise.  “At least when you’re in Hapes.”

Siri had known very little about Hapes before Padmé had press-ganged her into coming on this mission.  The eight-day flight here had given her plenty of time to read up on the basics: sixty-three star systems, enclosed within an unimaginably vast nebula called the Transitory Mists, ruled by a constitutional monarchy headed by a Queen Mother.  The Hapans were rich, powerful, isolationist, and above all, unfailingly matriarchal.

“Tell me something,” Siri said.  “You never mentioned how Thrawn even set this up.  If the Queen Mother doesn’t respect males –”

“From what I’ve gathered, she respects power,” Padmé replied.  “Thrawn took a chance on reaching out to her, soliciting her aid, and I think she recognized cunning and panache.  Even if it was from an ‘inferior’ source.”

In the third massage chair, Dormé spoke up.  “She might respect it, but not enough to keep her from engaging in power plays.  She invites us here at a specific time, to discuss terms for an alliance, and then we show up and are told she’s _busy._ ”

The last member of their party, a blue-sinned Twi’lek Knight named Aayla Secura, laughed.  Her voice was rich and deep, with an elegant accent to her Basic.  “The first rule of power is that it is exercised by those who have it,” she said.  “The second is that when it is not exercised in the pursuit of more, it is instead used to make those with less feel keenly the disparity.”

Siri groaned appreciatively as one of her masseurs worked a knot out of her back.  “I’m disappointed this is our first mission together, Aayla.  You’re obviously a revolutionary firebrand.”

The Twi’lek snorted.  “I am from Ryloth.  We are well familiar with the uses and abuses of power.”

“Well,” Siri said, “I don’t know about the three of you.  But if having us pass an hour getting massaged by pretty men is the Queen Mother’s idea of a power play, I’m looking forward to what she thinks of next.  Maybe she’s just trying to show off some of the material benefits of an alliance with her.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Padmé warned her.  “We’re being made to wait on her, plain and simple.  These pretty men are listening to every word we say, on top of whatever recording systems are installed in this room.  And, bluntly, getting us out of our clothes makes it easier to be sure we don’t have bombs strapped to us, as well as letting them deep-scan our garments.”

Siri thought of the officious woman who had apologized so profusely for the scheduling error.  She hadn’t been able to sense any deception in her.  Either she’d been told false information to allay suspicion and Jedi senses, or – now that she thought about it –this practice of pretending the Queen Mother was ‘busy’ was so routine that it no longer triggered feelings of deception.

Neither option boded particularly well.

Before she could voice that thought, however, the door to the massage room opened.  That same woman – Siri tried and failed to remember the elaborate title they’d been told, since her name had never been mentioned – stood in the doorway.  She wore what Siri was now recognizing as the standard courtier’s outfit in the Fountain Palace: a long, dark red robe with billowing sleeves, an elaborate white headdress which hid her hair and framed her face, and a large, golden sigil pinned just below her left shoulder.  Siri assumed the sigil indicated rank, position, or something similarly hierarchical.

The woman gave a shallow bow at the waist.  “It is hoped you have passed the last hour in exceeding relaxation,” she said.  Her Basic was accented in an odd, lilting way unlike anything Siri had heard before today.  That was unsurprising, of course, since she’d never met a Hapan until landing here.  “It is now that you may be prepared for your audience with the Queen Mother.”

To Siri’s disappointment, her pretty masseurs withdrew, leaving her to get up and follow the woman into the next room.  There, she was presented with an immaculately tailored white robe in a style similar to the woman’s, sans the headdress or sigil.  It was made of some kind of gorgeous, ridiculously soft septsilk.  Padmé was right about the surveillance; the Hapans had somehow gotten all four sets of their measurements, as well as fabricating these robes, in the hour since they’d touched down outside the Fountain Palace.

The woman ushered each of them into small, separate changing rooms, where Siri slipped out of the bathrobe and donned her new clothes.  She was surprised how much freedom of movement the garment gave her, and quietly revised her estimation of Hapan court fashion from “stuffy” to “stuffy, but designed to help you survive assassination.”

After they all emerged, the woman led them into another room, which sported four vanity stations loaded down with cosmetics, as well as sharply dressed male attendants standing stiffly near each one.  Siri picked the only blonde in the room, a short, wiry man with clear eyes and an impressive moustache.

He grinned at her, showing perfectly straight, white teeth.  “I am to enhance my lady’s already formidable beauty,” he said with a bow.  “Please sit, and allow Zelarah to show what he can do.”

With a shrug, Siri plopped herself down in the chair.  Zelarah set to work, murmuring in Hapan to himself.  In the four months since she’d shaved her head after the fight with Dooku, Siri’s hair had regrown enough that she wore it in a bob.  Rather than try to do something fancier with it, Zelarah wisely stuck to massaging in a conditioning agent, followed by a spray that set everything in place.

Then he got to work on her face, asking her how she wanted her eyes, lashes, brows, cheeks, cheekbones, and lips, and making helpful suggestions to her when she inevitably said she wasn’t sure.  Having been raised in the Temple, with little attention given to cosmetics except as traditional cultural decoration, Siri had had no idea how involved a process beautification could be.

By the time he was done, Siri was shocked at how different she looked.  The woman staring at her from the depths of the mirror was a striking, imperious figure, with artfully shadowed eyes, darkened lips, carefully emphasized cheekbones, and perfectly coiffed hair.

“A face worthy of worship,” Zelarah said.  Siri smiled at him, thinking, _damn him for making me blush._

Padmé and Dormé had received similar makeup jobs, though their long, dark hair had been styled into intricate buns and braids, respectively.  Aayla, having no hair, had opted to place extra emphasis on her large, striking eyes and lashes.  She sported two beautiful wings which curved to either side of her eyes.

The four of them, Siri thought, looked like white-clad goddesses.

“I have never been this pretty before,” she said.  “ _Ever._ ”

Padmé smiled tiredly.  “I did this, and more, every single day for eight years.”

Aayla made a scoffing noise.  “Do go ahead and ruin it for the rest of us, Your Majesty.”  Her tone made it clear she was not serious.  “Some of us are enjoying the chance to wear something other than an enemy’s blood.”

Internally, Siri reminded herself that she was here to guard Padmé, and not suddenly develop a crush on a fellow Jedi.

The officious woman looked them over and nodded.  “Our honored guests are prepared,” she pronounced.

Dormé raised her hands.  “May I have my ring back?” she asked.  “It was my father’s.  I prefer not to go without it.”  Her comment drew Siri’s attention to the fact that, despite their elegant robes and makeup, none of them had any jewelry.  Even Padmé’s and Dormé’s hair was styled without ornamentation.

The woman gave a small, apologetic bow.  “It is terribly regretful that I must refuse,” she said.  “It is the Hapan custom that only the Queen Mother be permitted jewelry in the court.  Your ring is safe with your other possessions.”

With a small frown, Dormé nodded.  “Very well.  Thank you.”

“This way, please.”

For the next twenty minutes, the woman led them down a single, massive hallway.  Its arched ceiling was a hundred meters high, its width at least twice that.  Huge, colorful tapestries hung from the walls, flags waved in the breezes summoned by climate-control systems.  Trees and plants from, Siri assumed, every Hapan world lined the corridor, filling the air with a multitude of scents – spices, floral fragrances, hints of not-unpleasant musk.  The floor and walls were stone, but inlaid into it were stylized depictions of Hapan worlds, Hapan rulers, Hapan ships, and many other objects Siri couldn’t even begin to identify, all done in precious metals: gold, platinum, orodium, electrum.  All along the center of the huge corridor were fountains: fountains of stone, metal, energy, ice, every material Siri could conceive of using for construction and dozens beyond that.  Without exception, though, they ran with water, crystal-clear.

Courtiers made way for them, the huge variety in color and cut of their garb disproving Siri’s assumption about the standard outfit for an inhabitant of the Fountain Palace.  She revised it to include only personal attendants of the Queen Mother.

Finally, they halted before the largest pair of doors Siri had ever seen.  They stretched all the way to the ceiling, were each carved from a single unimaginably gigantic slab of luminescent purple stone, and were intricately wrought.

“It is for the honored guests to kneel before the Queen Mother at a distance of thirty paces, and to speak only when spoken to until given leave to do so freely,” the woman said, bowing to each of them in turn.  “For those who break these protocols, the only penalty is execution.”

“Of course it is,” Siri muttered under her breath.

“We are ready,” Padmé said regally, shooting Siri a warning look.

The woman waved at the doors, and they swung silently inward.

The throne room was lined with great pillars of black marble, thrusting up from the almost blinding white of the floor.  A long, black carpet ran the length of the room, neatly bisecting it, leading straight to the huge golden throne at the far end.

Siri followed Padmé to exactly thirty paces from the throne and the red-clad, veiled woman seated in it.  Then she dropped to one knee, eyes down, and waited.

And waited.

After nearly thirty seconds, she gave in to her curiosity and annoyance and reached out with the Force toward the woman on the throne.  As soon as she did, a sense of wrongness struck her like a blow to her chest.  Her breath catching in her throat, she snapped her head up to look at the throne.

The woman seated in it was erect, head slightly tilted as though looking incredulously at the four of them, her face hidden by a veil which hung from an elegant, orodium crown banded across her forehead.  But she wasn’t moving.  At all.

“Do you think they’ll still execute us if we go confirm that the Queen Mother’s been murdered?” Siri asked.

The four of them looked at one another for a long, frozen moment.

“ _Merde,_ ” Aayla said.


	2. Something Most Foul

To the Hapans’ credit, they believed Siri and the others when they explained the situation.  They were still escorted by a group of very nervous guardswomen into a plush lounge, where they were kept under surveillance for the next hour, but it was definitely more intended as protection than detainment.

At the end of the hour, the most gorgeous man Siri had ever seen walked into the room.

His face was classically, aristocratically handsome, with large, dark eyes and full lips.  His skin was a rich mahogany, his hair black and cropped close to his head.  It was clear he was in excellent physical condition, judging from his musculature and the vital aura he exuded in the Force.  He wore dark red pants and a sleeveless black tunic which left his arms and a good slice of his chest and abdomen exposed.  A long cape, the same color as his pants, completed his outfit.

He bowed gracefully.  “Ambassador Amidala,” he said in faintly accented Basic.  His voice was warm and expressive.  “Knights Tachi and Secura.  Mistress Dormé.  I am Garan, the Chume’da of Hapes.”

Padmé rose from her seat to curtsy.  “Your Highness,” she said; apparently “Chume’da” meant something to her.  “I offer you greetings and condolences.”

Siri got up and bowed, since Garan was apparently a Big Deal.

He received everything with grace, regal but not stuck-up.  “Thank you for your kindness,” he said.  “My mother’s passing has thrown the court into chaos.  I apologize that you have consequently been kept waiting.”

“We understand completely,” Padmé assured him.  “May I ask –”

Garan nodded, his expression darkening.  “Murder,” he said.  “Regicide.”

“Well, shit,” Siri muttered.

“Do you have any suspects?” Aayla asked.

Now Garan smiled, but it was not a happy expression.  “Myself.  My cousins.  Dozens of courtiers.  My potential suitors.  Frankly, the only people in the Fountain Palace above suspicion are the four of you.  You have been monitored since you landed, and none of you could have approached the throne without triggering the alarms that went off _after_ Mother was already dead.”

“Let us help you,” Siri said.  “We’re not Truthsayers, but we can still detect falsehood and half-truths.”

Garan nodded somberly.  “This is precisely what I came to ask of you.  I must determine who is responsible for this blackest treason.  If I married my mother’s murderer –”  He shuddered.

“Aren’t you the ruler now?” Dormé asked.  “Why do you have to marry anyone?”

“No man may rule Hapes,” Garan replied.  “It is the way of things here.  I am the Chume’da, the heir apparent, but my power is merely to choose the next Queen Mother.  Hapes cannot be without a ruler, so I must marry as soon as possible.  But with practically every one of my prospective matches a suspect…”  He heaved his broad shoulders in a tired shrug.  “I am in a most unenviable position.”

“We can start by getting our gear back,” Padmé said.  “I’m not keen on running around investigating murder unarmed.”  She gestured at her face.  “And I don’t think we need to look quite this good to grill people.”

Garan pulled a commlink from his hip and spoke rapidly into it in Hapan.  “Your clothing and effects, as well as items for removing your makeup, are being brought as we speak,” he said.  “You will have my special dispensation to travel the palace armed, and investigate this murder on my behalf.”

“While we’re waiting,” Siri said, “We can start our investigation with you.  Did you kill your mother, Your Highness?”

Garan gave her a pained look.  “I did not.”

The words, and his Force signature, had the ring of truth to them, but Siri knew that half-truths could sound right if presented in a particular way.  “Did you conspire to allow others to kill her?” she asked.  “Or turn a blind eye to activities that are against regulations, but may have seemed harmless at the time?”

“I did not,” he replied.  “I have always endeavored to serve my mother faithfully.”

Siri shot a glance at Aayla, who inclined her head in a fractional nod.

Padmé seemed satisfied.  “For the moment, we’ll take you at your word,” she told him.  “Once a cause of death has been established and we have a timeframe for the murder and any actions leading up to it, we’ll ask for your alibi.”

“Of course.”

“You said there are dozens of potential suspects.  Let’s eliminate everyone who doesn’t have any real chance at the throne.”

Garan frowned.  “Why?  We have yet to prove anyone’s guilt.  The death penalty requires solid proof of wrongdoing.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.  Then Dormé suggested, “I think the Ambassador meant ‘eliminate’ as in ‘remove from our list of suspects.’”

Now Garan’s eyes widened.  “Ah!  Your pardon.  Basic has many double meanings.”

“Noted,” Padmé said dryly.  “So, let’s remove from consideration anyone without a real shot at the throne.”

“Your pardon again, Ambassador, but there is no such easy list,” Garan said.  “The Chume’da may select anyone as his wife, noble or commoner, if he feels her qualified for the position of Queen Mother.”

“Yes, but who are your top candidate?” Padmé asked.  “Let’s focus on the women who _know_ they’re up for consideration.”

Aayla spoke up.  “That assumes this was done for reasons of inheritance and position.  The killer or killers might have ideological motivations – an issue with the concept of monarchy.  Or a simple grudge.”

“The first possibility would suggest that Garan should have been targeted as well,” Padmé countered.  “Even then, killing the ruling family doesn’t destroy the monarchy.  The murderer would need to be in a position of power to abolish it afterward.  And since there _is_ no real power in Hapes but the monarchy…”

“They would need to be in a position to assume it afterward,” Aayla sighed.  “Of course.”

“And the grudge angle is impossible to pursue.  How many thousands of people would have reason to bear a grudge against the late Queen Mother?”                                            

“Indeed,” Garan said.  “I believe the Ambassador has the reason of it.  To answer your question, I believe the general consensus in the court is that my bride will be one of three women.  The first is Tsarya, Commander of the Navy.  The second is Cerin, my second cousin and Director of Military Intelligence.  The third is Oalla, Minister of Logistics.”

Siri raised her eyebrows.  “They all sound like they’d have the resources to plot something like this.”

“Indeed.  There are others of my acquaintance whom I believe would perhaps resort to this, but I do not think any have the power needed to effect it.”

Padmé nodded.  “Are they the only women who would have serious cause to think they might have a shot at being Queen Mother?  Are you seeing anyone?”

Garan gave a small shrug.  “No women.  The man who did Knight Tachi’s makeup occasionally finds his way into my bed, but for obvious reasons he could never be Queen Mother.”

Calling on all her Jedi training, Siri managed to retain her composure and not snicker.

“So, we should investigate these three, to start,” Padmé said.  “Just as soon as – ah.”  Three guardswomen entered, carrying boxes labeled in Hapan.  “I take it those are for us.”

“Indeed.”  Garan gave a short bow.  “I will be just outside.  When you are ready, we will go and speak to our suspects.”

Siri waited until the four of them were alone again.  Then she said, “I wonder if there’s still a slot open for Queen Mother Candidate.”

“Interested in the power?” Aayla asked, buckling her lightsaber back on.  “Or the man?”

Siri grinned.  “Can it be both?”

“Maybe,” Padmé suggested as she ran a remover pad over her face, “you want to wait until we’re absolutely positive he’s not a matricidal murderer.  Just a thought.”

“Well, I guess you might have a point there.”  Siri retrieved a remover pad from one of the cases and began running it over her own face.  “I still have no idea what killed the Queen Mother, and I was up close and personal with her corpse.  They’re going to have to do a proper autopsy.  We may be jumping the blaster talking to these people.”

“You’re not wrong, but it’s important we get out there and start doing things as soon as possible,” Padmé said.  “The Queen Mother was known to be fairly liberal, but the Jedi Order isn’t well-liked here.  If we’re not integral to solving this, whoever the next Queen Mother ends up being might conveniently forget that her predecessor was willing to hear us out.”

“But if we were indispensable in this investigation…” Dormé mused.

“Exactly.”  Padmé checked the charge on her blaster.  “All right. 

“Let’s go talk to some potential murderers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garan is, in my mind, a slightly taller Chadwick Boseman. Just throwing that out there.


	3. Interrogations and an Interruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back! *We* are back. The last month and a half is why I don't commit to update schedules. Thank you very much for your patience, and welcome back to Sith Apprentice. :)

Tsarya, Commander of the Royal Hapan Navy, was happy to speak to them, under the right circumstances.  Those circumstances were that Siri and Aayla disarmed themselves, and were kept on the other side of the Commander’s spacious but utilitarian rooms by armed guards.

Siri exchanged a glance with Aayla.  It was quite clear how the Commander felt about Jedi.

“I am grieved to hear of the Queen Mother’s passing,” Tsarya was saying to Padmé.  She was a tall, muscular woman with severely cut black hair, pale white skin, and an intense, green-eyed stare.  Siri eyed the ridiculous amount of medals and other accolades hanging from the Commander’s dark grey uniform, wondering what they could possibly be for.  Tsarya stood on a balcony which overlooked the Fountain Palace’s immaculately maintained gardens, and the setting sun blazed at her back.  “But I do not understand why His Highness has asked you and these Jedi to investigate.  This is an internal Hapan matter, for Hapes to handle.”

“Your pardon, Commander, but His Highness asked us to investigate because our movements and whereabouts have been monitored from the moment we landed.  It would have been impossible for us to be involved with the Queen Mother’s death.”  Padmé gave a slight shrug.  “That rules us out as suspects.”

Tsarya narrowed her eyes.  “There is no ‘above suspicion’ where Jedi are involved,” she said.  Her voice was soft and vicious.  “They have powers beyond the understanding of other beings.”

“We do not use the Force for attack,” Aayla spoke up before Siri could.  “It is not in our nature to kill with it.”

“So the Jedi have always claimed,” Tsarya snapped contemptuously.  “They have always represented themselves as guardians of peace and justice.  But that did not stop them from slaughtering my ancestors, the Lorell Raiders, and then leaving their children and women to starve in the Transitory Mists.  You have ever guarded only those whose protection you found _convenient._ ”

Dormé spoke into the tense silence following Tsarya’s declaration.  “So you didn’t agree with the Queen Mother’s decision to consider an alliance with the Jedi?”

“I did not, and I never will,” Tsarya replied, stiff-backed and solemn.  “I did not kill her or give the order for her death, but it is my hope that the next Queen Mother will have better sense.”

Padmé, quite deliberately, turned her back on the Commander.  “I think we’re done here for now,” she said.  “We’ll return when more information comes to light.”

“I look forward to it, Ambassador.  My own people will make inquiries as well.”  Tsarya turned her back too, returning to the view of the gardens in the setting sun.

Her troops returned Siri’s and Aayla’s lightsabers once they stepped outside the suite, back into the Fountain Corridor.

“Well,” Siri said, not caring who overheard them.  “She’s unpleasant.”

“Is what she says about the Jedi and the Lorell Raiders true?” Dormé asked.

“The Order was more… _militant_ in those days,” Aayla replied.  “Fresh from the Republic-Sith war of a thousand years ago, their methods were brutal and merciless.  They walked in the Light, but the Light is not always soft or charitable.  It can blind and burn.”

Padmé nodded, her mouth twisted into a grimace.  “No wonder the Hapans distrust Jedi, if they were raised on stories about _that_ version of the Order.”

“I have heard it rumored that Grandmaster Yoda has softened considerably in the last seven hundred years,” Aayla confirmed.  “At the time of the Lorell Raider conflict, he was apparently one of the most feared beings in the galaxy.”

“And with good reason,” Siri murmured.

“Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now,” Dormé said.  “She’s got definite motive, and obviously all three of our main suspects have means.  But the fact that she’s so blunt about her feelings about the Queen Mother –”

“Means nothing,” Padmé cut her off with a shake of her head.  “It could easily be a ploy, setting herself up as too honest to perpetuate an assassination.  We just need to keep moving forward.  Who are we interviewing next?”

Checking the datapad Garan had given them, Dormé replied, “Oalla, the Minister of Logistics.  Her office is about a kilometer down the Fountain Corridor from here.”

They began to walk, Siri keeping an eye on the courtiers and other Hapans scurrying through the great, echoing space.  News of the Queen Mother’s death had been suppressed, so far, so there was no reduction in traffic yet.  The Force was silent, no warnings or nudges to be felt.

“Why,” Dormé asked, “did they feel the need to make this place so blasted _big?_ ”

“The Theed Palace is comparably sized,” Padmé pointed out.

“Yes, but there’s no three-kilometer corridor running the length of the entire thing.  It’s broken up into nice, digestible chunks.”

Siri smiled to herself, deciding not to tell Dormé about the Grand Corridor of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.  That was many times this size.

They covered the distance quickly, arriving at a set of large, wooden doors embossed with stylized depictions of flowering plants.  When Padmé moved to knock, they swung open, seemingly of their own accord.

Beyond was a rainforest.

Siri frowned.  After the first moment of shock at being confronted with such overwhelming _green_ indoors, the rest of her senses caught up with her eyes.  Yes, the room beyond was full of trees and ferns, but it wasn’t a proper rainforest.  The air was rich, but there were no smells of fecundity or decay.  There was no stifling moisture in the atmosphere.  No water dripped from the leaves, but merely flowed in a small, artificial stream through the center of the room.

It was an impressive office, but it felt hollow to Siri.

A winding stone path cut through the foliage, rose over the stream in a small bridge, and opened into Minister Oalla’s actual working space.  She sat behind an orowood desk, flanked by a pair of male bodyguards who might have been twins.  As she rose to acknowledge them, Siri noted that she was on the shorter side for a Hapan, in addition to being so slight she was almost willowy.  She wore her blond hair short, cut so it framed her round, friendly face.  She smiled at the four of them as they approached.

Then Siri met her gaze.  Her eyes were a warm, deep brown, but they were also flinty, and calculating.  Instantly, Siri felt herself become wary.  Not everything was as it seemed, here.

“Ambassador Amidala,” Oalla said with a deferent nod.  “I am honored by your visit.”  She gestured toward four chairs which had been arranged opposite her desk.  “Please.”

They sat.  “We’re here regarding the Queen Mother,” Padmé said, getting right to the point.

Oalla reseated herself.  “I did not kill her.”

Siri exchanged glances with Aayla.  The other woman nodded.  The statement had rung half-true for her, too.

Seeing the look they shared, Oalla beamed.  It was an incongruously beatific expression for a woman who Siri could sense was so cold, so jaded.  “Your Jedi don’t believe me.”

“Should they?” Padmé asked bluntly.

“I _wish_ I had killed her  That’s what they sense.  That, coupled with the knowledge that I absolutely could have.”  Oalla made an encompassing gesture.  “The Minister of Logistics, in effect, oversees _everything._   The dispensation of the Treasury.  The purification of water and air.  The deployment of our military.  The alliances we make.”  She let that last point hang in the air before continuing.  “Others are directly in charge of these functions, but every government decision, _every_ one, is forwarded to my desk.  When I created this position, the Court thought the job impossible.  I proved all of them wrong.”

“So with your powers of oversight, you could easily have arranged the Queen Mother’s death,” Dormé said.  “Putting aside whether or not you could have avoided responsibility for it, you never did, despite wanting to.  Why?”

Oalla’s beatific smile did not waver.  “Because I despised the woman who took the crown.  She was petty, short-sighted, venal, and capricious – not to speak ill of the dead.”  Now the smile twisted just a bit.  “But I am loyal to the _crown._ ”

And _that,_ Siri thought, was absolutely true.

“I see,” Padmé said.  “Thank you for seeing us.  We’ll let you get back to work.  When we have more information we’ll have more specific questions.”

“Good luck.”  Oalla nodded at the four of them.  “I suspect you’ll need it.”

As the door closed behind them, Aayla observed, “I do not envy Garan his position.  His potential brides are not to my taste.”

Siri felt her left eyebrow raise about a quarter inch.  Consciously, she lowered it.  _Later._

“And we haven’t even met potential bride number three yet,” Padmé murmured.

“We’re about to,” Dormé declared, looking at her datapad.  “Cerin’s office is only about fifty meters that way.  The big gold door.”

Siri turned to look.  The instant her gaze fell on the door, she felt the Force jolt through her like a punch to the gut.  Something was terribly _wrong_ there.  She could almost see the Dark Side seeping through the seams of the doorway, like black smoke.

“Aayla,” she said through a suddenly-dry throat.

“Yes,” Aayla said.  “I sense it too.”

They both drew their lightsabers and dashed to the door, taking up positions to either side.  People in the Corridor eyed them and began to collectively back away, murmuring in Hapan.  A moment after they were in position, Padmé and Dormé moved into place behind them, pistols drawn.

“Ready,” Padmé said.

Siri took a long step toward the door and blew it open with a Force push.

Cerin’s office was small, dimly-lit, and full of beautiful stone statuary lining the walls – humanoid figures in various classical poses.  At the moment, they were being harshly illuminated by the hellish red glow of a Sith lightsaber.

Cerin herself was slumped in her chair, the lightsaber in question stabbed through her chest.  Holding the weapon –

“Well,” Darth Vader said, looking at Siri with a predatory grin.  “The Jedi Order’s women have come to play war with me.”


	4. Attack of the Clones

Siri watched, lightsaber ready, as Vader casually whirled his phrik saberspear in a flourish around his body.  The short, shoto-length lightsaber blade on the end of the devilishly flexible, six-foot shaft hummed as it cut the air.  The wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling window behind him, which overlooked the Fountain Palace’s battlements, silhouetted him in the harsh red light of a Hapan sunset.

With an almost contemptuous twitch of his wrist, Vader swept the blade through Cerin’s neck.  The already-dead Director of Intelligence’s head went flying.  It rolled to a stop next to one of the statues lining her office.

“Seems you’re just a little late in questioning her,” he said with an evil grin.  The expression was obscene on his distressingly familiar features.

“Why did you kill her?” Aayla demanded, stepping into the office to take up position next to Siri.  She held her twin blades, blue and white, in a high-and-low stance.

Vader put on a puzzled look.  “I would have thought you might understand,” he said.  “Isn’t tying up loose ends one of the most satisfying feelings for you, too?”

Before Siri could say anything else, Padmé and Dormé whipped their pistols into the open doorway and opened fire from cover.  Their shots burned past Siri and Aayla toward Vader.

One of the late Director’s statues, a humanoid figure in a pensive pose, leapt out of its glass case, spraying razor-edged shards everywhere.  It caught the bolts, red-hot stone chips gouting from the impact points.  Then Vader sent it hurtling at Aayla.

With a strident battle-cry, the Twi’lek Jedi cleaved the statue in two, deflecting the halves to either side of her with the Force.  The beleaguered pieces slammed into the far wall, where they shattered.  Even as Aayla defended herself, Siri leapt at Vader to press the attack.  “Go!” she shouted at Padmé and Dormé as their blades locked.  “Make sure Garan’s safe!  We’ve got this!”

She knew better than to take her eyes off Vader, but she nevertheless heard the sound of Padmé and Dormé’s boots ringing against the stone floor as they retreated.  Aayla pounced on Vader, blades flashing, and the battle was joined in earnest.

Vader defended himself with the same impeccable skill he had displayed on Geonosis, the last time Siri had fought him.  Now, however, she was better-prepared for the encounter.  She had practiced against a saberspear training droid for dozens of hours, determined that she would not go down so easily in their next fight.

Of course, Vader was worlds better than any droid, but now Siri knew the fundamentals of his style.  She could anticipate the spinning slashes, the dizzying thrusts, the vicious force of the weapon’s strikes.  She was barely holding, but she _was_ holding – surrendering no ground.

Vader disengaged with a reverse somersault up onto Cerin’s dark wooden desk.  “This is great fun,” he declared.  “You’ve gotten much better.”  He looked at Aayla.  “And you fight with a very un-Jedi-like ferocity.  Have you considered switching allegiances?”

“I will die first,” Aayla snarled.

The Sith grinned again.  “Very poor choice of words.”

Siri felt the warning in the Force, but even with that warning they were powerless to stop his next assault.  The Dark Side exploded from Vader like a fist, broadsiding Aayla across her face and chest as though her Force defenses were nonexistent.  She went flying through a glass case and into a bronzium sculpture of a woman warrior clad in armor and wielding a sword.  The impact snapped the statue clean in half.  Aayla hit the ground and didn’t move.

“Aayla!” Siri cried.  She threw herself into a defensive position, interposed between the downed woman and Vader.

Vader casually dropped back to the floor, his saberspear spinning in long, lazy arcs.  “How long do you think you can last?” he asked.  “A warrior honestly compares the difference in strength between themselves and their opponent, and acts accordingly.”

“And how do you think I should act?” Siri asked, playing for time.  She recognized that Vader was quoting an ancient Echani philosopher-general; if she could engage him on this level, she might be able to buy Aayla time to wake up.

“There are five modes of operation in war,” Vader replied, still drawing from the Echani well.  “Attack, defense, flight, surrender, and death.  If you can attack, you _must_ attack – but you can’t, because you would be abandoning your friend.  If you cannot attack, you must defend – but you can’t, because you know I’m more powerful by far.  If you cannot defend, you must flee – but you can’t, for the same reason you can’t attack.  So you must surrender, or you must die.”  He pointed the saberspear at her heart.  “Choose.”

“Of course you would quote Ssuma-ii,” Siri sniffed, name-dropping the Echani philosopher-general Vader was referencing.  “He was all action and threat.  Perfect for the Sith philosophy.  But there’s a sixth option he never considered, and by extension, that _you’ve_ never considered.”

Vader narrowed his eyes at her, suspicious.  “Oh?”

“The one thing the Sith are terrible at,” Siri said loftily.  “Doing nothing, and waiting for your opponent to act.”

“Passivity is the same as death,” Vader countered.

Siri gave him a mockingly sweet smile as Aayla surged back to her feet, consciousness regained, lightsabers reigniting.

“Is it?” she asked.

They flew at him again, coming in from opposing angles – high and low, left and right, slowly but perceptibly pushing him back toward Cerin’s desk.  An image, a plan, blossomed in Siri’s mind, sent from Aayla.  She sent back a flash of positive acknowledgment.

With a burst of Force energy, Aayla slid the desk forward, bumping it into Vader’s back.  He didn’t stumble, but he suddenly found himself unable to retreat, and his whirling saberspear had to stay above his waist or risk crashing into the heavy wooden desk.  Siri took three quick steps around to his right side as Aayla pressed in from the left; then Siri leapt up onto the desk.

They unleashed everything they had, hammering the Sith from both directions with staccato blows.  Siri felt Aayla drop deeply into the Force, drawing on its power for the focus and speed needed to execute a blistering Jar’kai attack sequence of staggering complexity.  Limited to fighting atop the desk in order to keep Vader flanked, Siri abandoned her Ataru acrobatics in favor of the Soresu defensive form.  She was a pillar of strength, unyielding in her determination.

Trapped between them, Vader’s form became a hair slower, a millimeter less precise.  They were having an effect, and that knowledge reenergized Siri, refreshing her flagging reserves.  They were pressing him so hard he had no room to gather the power for another overwhelming Force attack.

Then Siri noticed the blinking light which had begun flashing on his belt commlink.

The window behind Cerin’s desk exploded inward.  Siri felt a dozen tiny shards of glass slice into her unprotected back before she could raise a Force shield.  The Force screamed _threat_ at her, and she knew she had to turn and confront whatever it was, or she would die.

She spun, saber ready, and managed to deflect the searing red lightsaber blade thrusting at her face.  The kick to her midsection caught her almost completely by surprise, sending her flying past Vader to skid painfully across the floor into a wall.  Her back roared with pain from the shards, and she struggled to draw breath as her diaphragm went into spasm from the kick.

The thing that had attacked her landed in a crouch on the desk.

It looked like a droid, one with a silvery armor carapace sheathing its legs, arms, and cranial unit.  Its body was hidden beneath a white cloak.  With a horrible, gut-twisting start, Siri realized that the otherwise-featureless face had two _organic_ eyes, stained a radioactive yellow, staring out from behind what she now saw was a mask.  Not only that, but she could feel the Dark Side seeping out from it, like half-congealed blood from a rotting wound.  It gripped a Sith saber in one metallic hand.

Unable to keep Vader pinned down by herself, Aayla disengaged, falling back three quick paces to place herself between him and Siri.  For his part, Vader took a long step to the side, clearing the way for the abomination behind him.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” he asked, gesturing to the creature.  “It should keep the two of you entertained in my absence.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to destroy the royal Hapan line.”

He propelled himself out the window with a Force jump.  The thing on the desk stepped to the floor on broad, three-clawed feet, servomotors whirring within it.  Siri struggled to her feet, trying to block the pain of the tiny glass shards digging into her back.  She would deal with those wounds later, when they weren’t being confronted by a Sith abomination.

It charged at them, lightsaber humming.  Siri and Aayla met its attack, parrying its opening flurry with noticeable difficulty.  Its form was unrefined, but it was just as fast as, and even stronger than, Vader.  Siri could sense it drawing on the Dark Side, and shuddered at the creature’s twisted signature in the Force.

Even injured and winded, however, the two of them were more than an even match for the abomination.  It lacked Vader’s unholy skill and overwhelming power in the Dark Side.  With a cry, Siri slapped its weapon aside, and Aayla brought her sabers down on its arm in a severing slash.

Siri stared in shock when the green and blue blades bounced off the limb with no discernable effect.

“It’s made from phrik!” Aayla snarled.  “What _is_ this creature?”

There was no time for Siri to make a reply; the thing loosed a bestial howl and redoubled its assault, slashing wildly at them with its Sith saber as well as the sharpened metal talons of its left hand.  Siri caught its hand on her blade, and stiffened in horror as it wrapped its fingers around the pulsing shaft of energy.  With a sudden, vicious motion, it ripped the lightsaber from her grasp, sending the hilt flying across the room as the blade deactivated.

It had her dead to rights.  Its saber came down, it was going to slice her from skull to gut –

Aayla caught its blade between her own, disarmed it with a furious and complex whirling motion, and slashed into its torso.  It crumpled with a final, guttural cry.

“Apparently it’s not made of phrik there,” she said.

Siri called her saber back to her hand, deciding that there was no time to fall into profligate thanks for the save.  “That would be because I suspect it’s not _made from_ anything.”  She twitched the cloak aside from the abomination’s body.

Two smoking gashes were carved into a distinctly human torso, joined cruelly to metal limbs at the shoulders and the waist.  Its skin was waxen and deathly pale, and it seemed male.  Steam hissed from beneath the mask.  The featureless metal fell away, clattering to the floor.

Anakin Skywalker’s face stared up at them, slack and dead.


	5. Nobody Bothers to Look Up

The Fountain Corridor was a storm of frenzied activity, as couriers ran in all directions from the sounds of blasterfire and lightsabers.  Padmé and Dormé sprinted down the corridor, Padmé pulling her commlink from her sleeve.  “Your Highness!” she spoke into it.  “I need your present location, immediately!  The assassin is still inside the palace!”

With a burst of static, the commlink crackled to life.  Padmé jerked involuntarily as the distinctive reports of blasterfire began issuing from it.  “Ambassador!” Garan’s voice buzzed.  “I am in the Arboretum.  I was meeting with an informant when –”  Another burst of blasterfire, much closer than before, momentarily cut him off.  “There are droids in here!  Droids who fight like men.  I urgently require your assistance!”

“On our way.  Stay down!”  Padmé returned the commlink to her sleeve, then grabbed the nearest courtier by the collar.  “The Arboretum!” she shouted, eyes blazing.  “Where is it?”

“Big green door!” the woman replied, obviously terrified.  “Five hundred meters that way!”

She shoved the courtier aside and resumed running, Dormé hot on her heels.  Quietly, she cursed the Hapans for having such an unnecessarily huge palace.

They had made it perhaps halfway there when the shooting started.

Robed and hooded courtiers all around them suddenly produced blasters and opened fire into the crowd.  Padmé and Dormé both dove to the floor, avoiding the withering hail of bolts, but dozens of people were cut down in the opening seconds.  Acting on instinct, Padmé snapped her pistol up and shot one of the robed courtiers in the gut.  They collapsed, weapon falling from nerveless fingers.

 _Metallic_ fingers.

Padmé elbow-crawled to the dead assassin to pull back its hood.  As she’d suspected, it was a CIS commando droid.  Its domed head, white-dot photoreceptors, and muzzle-like vocabulator grille were unmistakable.

“Dormé, they’re commando droids!” she shouted over the din of weapons fire, screams, and alarms.  “Fire at will!”

Dormé was back on her feet in one graceful movement, shooting down five droids in ten seconds.  Padmé got to her own feet as well, not quite as quick or graceful, and began firing.  Their efforts were joined by Hapan palace security, women wearing brilliant silver uniforms.

They dispatched the commando droids in short order, but they could hear the sounds of more fighting further down the corridor, as well as see distant weapons flash.  Padmé turned to the security squad’s sergeant, a steely-eyed woman of middle years with cheekbones like granite.  “Prince Garan is in danger,” Padmé said.  “He’s under attack in the Arboretum.”

“We will accompany you,” the sergeant replied.  “This way.”

They had to deal with one more batch of commando droids on the way.  Padmé wondered fleetingly how the machines had gotten into the Fountain Palace; it would bear investigation once the current crisis was resolved.  For the moment, however, there were more pressing issues.

The door to the Arboretum was indeed big and green, easily the size of a landspeeder stood up on its engines.  It also refused to open.

“It’s been jammed,” Dormé said, disgusted.  “Is there another way inside?”

“No time,” the sergeant replied.  She raised her blaster rifle and fired a bolt into the door, just to the right of the frame.  “The locking mechanism is _there,_ eighteen inches in.  Fire.”

She and her entire squad opened up on the door, pouring blaster bolts into that precise spot.  Padmé and Dormé fired too, their pistols less powerful but nonetheless contributing.  The wood of the door was incredibly durable, but it splintered and gave way before the relentless assault.

After thirty seconds of sustained fire, there was an audible click.  The door swung inward.

In contrast to Oalla’s office, the Arboretum was a deciduous forest rather than a jungle.  Tall, proud trees with fiery red bark and purple leaves stretched toward the thirty-meter, transparisteel ceiling.  Small footpaths of artificial stone wore through the floor of the miniature forest, surrounded by dark green shrubs and radioactive-yellow ferns.

Blasters sounded in the distance.

They bolted into the Arboretum, weapons ready, senses alert.  Padmé followed the noise of combat, which grew steadily in volume as she approached.  She passed between two trees, and there they were: commando droids, five of them, crouched behind a massive log and exchanging fire with someone Padmé couldn’t see through the undergrowth.

She shot one of them; Dormé accounted for two more, and the security squad took out the others.  The blasterfire in the distance, however, did not cease – there was at least one more group of droids.

Heedless of the danger, Padmé charged forward, heading for the location of the defensive fire she’d seen being exchanged with the commando droids.  “Your Highness!” she called.  “It’s Padmé!  Don’t shoot!”

A particularly thick bush twitched aside, revealing it had been cut at its stem and appropriated for camouflage.  Behind it crouched Garan, a blaster clutched in one hand.

“There are at least six more,” he said without preamble.  “We are flanked from two more sides in this position, but they seem unwilling to advance.  What are they waiting for?”

The answer came dropping from the ceiling, preceded by a neatly-cut circle of transparisteel.  Darth Vader landed in a crouch atop the circle, the edges of which still glowed red-hot from his lightsaber blade.  He grinned at the two of them.  “Good evening, Your Highness.”

Padmé’s pistol went flying off into the trees, seemingly of its own accord.  At the same instant, an invisible vise seized her throat, keeping her from being able to breathe.  From the assorted sounds of pain and the clattering of weapons behind her, Padmé guessed the same thing was happening to Dormé and the rest of the security contingent.

“So sorry to have made you wait,” Vader continued, addressing himself to Garan.  “I was delayed, and I need to kill you personally.  So the Jedi look culpable.  I’m certain you understand.”

Garan, the only person not having the life choked out of them, drew himself up.  “You do not intimidate me, sir.  Release them or die.”

“Hmm.  Pass.”  Vader took a purposeful step toward Garan.

There was an enormous flash of light, blinding in its intensity, accompanied by an incredible bang.  Padmé staggered back, ears ringing, eyes watering – but the grip around her throat was gone.  Blinking at the massive purple splotch obfuscating her vision, she realized that Garan must have been concealing a flashbang.  The Prince had disappeared in the half-second of confusion.

And with a tremendous cry, Dormé fell on Vader.

She sent the saberspear spinning from his slackened grip with a kick.  Vader, obviously still reeling from the flashbang going off right in his face, took three involuntary steps back from the blow.  He raised his hands in a defensive form, eyes closing.

There was no way she would be able to take him alone, even with him half-stunned, but she didn’t have to.  Padmé rushed at him from the left, old martial-arts training coming back to her as she threw a stiff-fingered jab at his throat.  He blocked it, eyes still closed, but it was a hasty maneuver, with no possibility to let him counterattack.  Dormé moved in as well, trying a rapid succession of chambered punches and snap kicks straight from the Mandalorian CQC course Skirata had run them through after Kamino.

Even blind, Vader was a formidable opponent.  He dodged their strikes or took them on his forearms, only giving ground by inches.  Padmé and Dormé pressed him relentlessly, knowing that the instant he had an opportunity to use a Force attack the fight would abruptly end.

Behind her, Padmé could hear the security team retrieving their weapons and falling into a melee with the remaining commando droids.  That was good; it was less likely that she or Dormé would get shot in the back while trying to deal with Vader.

And the key word was, indeed, _try._   With every passing second his movements became faster, more assured.  He started throwing out brutally fast counters, swift knife-handed cuts and elbow smashes which hit like meteors.  Padmé felt the breath rush out of her as he grazed the side of her chest, the barest impact bruising one of her ribs.  Pain flared bright and hot behind her eyes.

 _His_ eyes opened.

With a grin, he caught Dormé’s snap kick.  He twisted and hurled her by the ankle in one vicious swing.  She flew three meters before crashing into a tree, shattering the bark.  Leaves sprayed from its branches with the collision.

Vader rounded on Padmé.  “A valiant effort,” he said.  “But wherever he’s scurried to, I _will_ find him, and you cannot take me alone.”

“But she’s not alone,” a familiar voice said from behind Padmé.  Deciding to risk it, Padmé glanced over her shoulder.

Sure enough, there were Siri and Aayla, looking bruised and exhausted but nevertheless determined.  Held firmly in Siri’s grip was Vader’s saberspear.

“You have one chance to surrender,” Aayla said, her dual blades blazing to life.  “Else we will put you down like the Sith dog you are.”

“Tempting, but I think not,” Vader said.  “I somehow doubt you will be able to secure an alliance now, even with Garan still alive.  Until next time.”

Padmé tensed, but there was nothing she could do.  Vader bent his knees just slightly, then jumped thirty meters back up through the hole he’d made in the roof.  “Can you follow him?” she asked.

Siri shook her head.  “The Jedi record for a vertical leap is sixteen meters, and that’s from Master Windu.  There’s no way either of us could make thirty, even working together.”

The last of the commando droids died with an electronic cry.  The threat dealt with for the moment, Padmé rushed to Dormé’s side.  “Dormé, are you okay?  Can you hear me?”

Dormé looked up at her from the leaf-littered ground, eyes clear, and nodded.  “I’m going to have a ridiculous bruise, but I hit with my rear and thighs instead of my spine.”

Padmé sighed in relief.  “Thank the Force.  One crippled friend because of him is already too many.”  She helped her bodyguard back to her feet.  “We need to find Garan.  Even if Vader’s retreating, we can’t assume he’s safe.”

“Oh, I am quite safe now, Ambassador.”

With a start, Padmé looked straight up.  “Your Highness?”

Garan dropped out of a nearby tree, taking the four-meter landing with ease.  “Nobody ever bothers to look up,” he said with a sly grin.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Padmé said.  “Where’s your informant?”

“About twenty meters that way,” Garan replied with a gesture, “and stone dead.  The commando droids shot her when they ambushed us.  Fortunately, she had already told me what I needed to know.”

“And that is?” Siri pressed.

He looked at the four of them, his expression grave.  “Our murderous and recently-departed Sith friend had help getting in. 

“There are traitors among us.”


	6. Alliances

“The results of my mother’s autopsy have arrived,” Garan said, entering the suite where Siri and the Order’s other envoys had been put up after the chaos of the day.  He held aloft a datapad.  “Asphyxiation, caused by forced closure of the windpipe.  But without any trauma to the neck, as one normally sees in strangulation.”

The suite had four bedrooms, a sitting-room, a kitchen, and two bathrooms, all done in deep shades of red and dark wood.  Currently, the four of them – five now, counting Garan – were in the sitting-room, stretched out on divans around a central indoor fire pit.

Padmé sat up in her seat, tucking a stray strand of hair behind one ear.  “Then there’s no doubt.  Vader killed her.”

“And one day he will pay for that,” Garan said darkly.  He moved to sit in the one armchair in the room, dropping the datapad on an adjacent end table as he did so.  “That mystery solved, however, we are left with another: how was he able to sneak himself, the cyborg you fought, and more than fifty commando droids past Palace Security?  Or, more precisely, who helped him?”

“When we walked in on him killing Cerin, he said he was tying up a loose end,” Aayla observed.

Now, distanced from the event, with the Force calmer and her head clear, Siri felt the statement – even delivered by proxy through Aayla – ring hollow.  Even through the remaining turbulence from the chaos of the day, the Force sang to her: _this is a lie._

“Cerin certainly possessed the means to effect their infiltration of the palace,” Garan agreed.  “He must have wanted to silence her so she could not reveal information about their alliance.  My informant died before she could give me a name, but –”

The word came bursting out of Siri, almost as though it had a will of its own.  “No.”

Everyone turned to look at her.  “You think not?” Aayla asked.

“No, I think not,” Siri said.  “Your Highness, as Jedi we’re taught that there is no coincidence or luck, only the Force.  But even all three couldn’t account for what’s happened today.”

Garan’s expressive brow furrowed.  “Explain, please.”

“Vader has said he was out to destroy the Hapan royal line and make the Jedi look culpable,” Siri said.  “But he didn’t need us here to do that.  Lightsaber burns on your bodies, maybe a ‘chance’ encounter with Palace Security where he showed he was a Force user, would have been enough.  I mean, he looks _just like the Chosen One._   There was nothing served by waiting for us to be here to stop him.”

“There wasn’t, was there?” Dormé murmured.  “His plan would have succeeded if he’d done all this in the week between Thrawn’s proposal, the Queen Mother’s consent, and our arrival.”

“Exactly,” Siri said.  “Plus, on our end, all of seven people – us, Thrawn, Anakin, and Master Yoda – knew about the mission.  The leak had to have come from here, and as you said, they had a full week.  That should have been enough time.”

Garan gestured contemplatively.  “Perhaps he waited so he might have the opportunity to kill you, too.”

“No,” Siri disagreed.  “I think his entire goal was to _look_ like he was trying to kill you, but _actually_ to arrange it so you’d end up marrying his inside woman.  Once she was Queen Mother, you’d end up dead, and she’d ally with the CIS.”

Aayla made a sharp noise in her throat.  “He _was_ very forthcoming about his plans.  Too forthcoming, now that I am giving it further thought.”

“And he absolutely could have killed you in the Arboretum,” Dormé continued the thread.  “Either he could have just had the commando droids storm your position and murder you, or he could have bantered less and just Force hurled you into a tree.  He probably _knew_ you carry a flashbang for emergencies, and was giving you the chance to use it.”

Now Garan rubbed at his temples, looking dumbfounded.  “If this is true, the blame must rest with Tsarya or Oalla.  They are the two remaining candidates for Queen Mother who possess motive and means.  I cannot marry either for fear of this, and I cannot have them removed due to lack of evidence.  But Hapes _must_ have a new ruler, and I cannot marry a commoner or a feckless courtier.  I would be putting my people’s lives in the hands of an unknown.”  He stared at them, his expression bleak.  “What am I to do?”

A long moment of silence passed.  Then Dormé spoke again.  “Ambassador,” she said formally to Padmé.  “A word in private, please?”

Siri frowned as the two women got up and repaired to Padmé’s bedroom.  _Wonder what’s going on there._   “There’s no way you can rule alone?” she asked.

“None,” Garan replied.  “No man may rule Hapes, and only the Queen Mother may gainsay that law.  Even if one did, there would be riots, rebellions.  It would shatter the Consortium irreparably.”

Padmé returned from the bedroom, looking uncharacteristically grim.  Her Force aura glowed, however, with determination.  “Your Highness,” she said.  “What are the qualifications for the position of Queen Mother?”

“Nothing formal or codified,” Garan replied.  “Practically speaking, diplomatic experience is good.  A will of steel is better.  And, it is unfortunate, but my culture is a vain one.  She _must_ be beautiful.”  He seemed pained.  “And human.”

Siri had a sudden, jolting premonition.  “Padmé!  You can’t be thinking –”

“No, I can’t be,” Padmé agreed.  “I’m the Ambassador for the Jedi.  I have a sworn duty to your Order, and only Master Yoda can release me from it.  So do both of you.  But there’s a candidate here who has seen every one of my diplomatic interactions in the past four years.  One with unassailable will, and both inner and outer beauty.”  The bedroom door opened behind her, and she turned, tears brimming in her eyes.  “One who I now release from her duties as my shield.”

Now, Siri stood, feeling numb.  Dormé radiated calm composure, and held a deactivated commlink in one hand.

“What did Anakin say?” Padmé asked.

“He said,” Dormé replied, her voice totally controlled, “that he loves me.  And because of that, he knows this is necessary.  He’s proud of me for doing it.  And he hopes I can find happiness here.”  She turned to Garan.  “Your Highness?  Forgive the presumption, but I believe I am your best option.”

Garan just sat there, speechless, for almost ten seconds.  Then he got to his feet, only to drop to one knee before her.  “Milady Dormé,” he said.  “Forgive _my_ presumption, as well as the complete lack of ceremony.  Will you be my Ta’a Chume?  Will you rule Hapes as Queen Mother, and take from me my seed, that it might give you daughters?”  He looked up, cheeks darkening just slightly.  “I apologize.  Those _are_ the traditional words.”

Dormé colored a bit too, but she nodded regally.  “I will.”

He rose, kissed her hand with exacting precision.  “Then, with your permission, I would be wed tonight.  We may formally announce your reign in four days, after the conclusion of mourning rites for my mother.”

“I will send for Jedi to be permanently stationed here as your bodyguards,” Aayla said.  “They should arrive in only three days.  We will be prepared.”

“Thank you.”  Dormé looked at Garan, gave him a tentative smile.  “All right.  Let’s go get married, I suppose.”

* * *

The ceremony was short and to-the-point, with an officiant and six witnesses – three Hapans and three representatives of the Order.

A day after the mourning rites for the late Queen Mother ended, Dormé was crowned.  She took the oath of the Ta’a Chume, becoming the first non-Hapan to ever hold the position.  In turn, the ladies of the court and their consorts swore an oath of fealty to her.  Among their number were the obviously-unhappy Tsarya and Oalla.

The day after that, the Hapes Consortium was at war with the Confederacy of Independent Systems.

* * *

Alone in the second guest cabin aboard Padmé’s starship, Siri stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep.  She had felt nothing from Dormé but determination, calm, a surety that this was how she could best help the Jedi and Anakin.

But Siri knew the pain and loss was there too, hidden beneath that determination and calm.  She recognized what Dormé had given up for the cause.

There was a knock at her door, accompanied by a familiar glow in the Force.  “Come in,” she called.

Aayla slipped inside.  “I see you are having trouble sleeping too,” she said.  “Would you like some company?”

Siri opened her mouth to say no, but decided against it.  _Better to have insomnia together than alone,_ she thought.  “Sounds good.”  She sat up on the small bed.  When she was about to gesture for Aayla to take the desk chair, the Twi’lek woman instead surprised her by seating herself on the bed.

Not that Siri minded.

“Dormé is a woman of great courage,” Aayla said.  “I find myself wondering if I could ever match it.”

Siri frowned.  “Did we or did we not just face down Darth Vader together?”

Aayla shook her head.  “That is not courage.  I have been trained my entire life to fight evil.  I have been prepared to sacrifice my life in the struggle against it.  Is a gutkurr brave when it fights with its pack against a lylek?  No.  It operates on instinct.  I am not brave.”  She looked at Siri, her pupils large in the dimness.  “I am afraid.”

“What of?” Siri asked.

“Of what I might do, were I in a situation like Dormé’s,” Aayla replied.  “Could I give up the Order, and leave behind all my companions, to live alone in a foreign land?  Could I bind myself to a stranger, as she has, in the pursuit of my cause?  I fear the answer.  I fear it, because I cannot even summon the courage to speak honestly to – to someone I admire.”

The pieces clicked together in Siri’s mind.  “Jedi aren’t supposed to have attachments,” she said.

Aayla quirked a smile.  “And how many times has that rule been broken by the most important people in our fight?”

“It’s true,” Siri acknowledged.  “Do you want to do this, Aayla?”

The Twi’lek’s gaze dropped, her rich blue skin darkening toward purple around her cheeks.  “Do you?”

“I have since we first met,” Siri told her.  “I just – well, I told myself it wasn’t a good time.  That we couldn’t afford the distraction.”  She gestured at the darkened room.  “I think both of those objections are off the table.”

“I think so, as well,” Aayla said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for quite a while now,” Siri murmured, leaning closer but remaining that final, crucial inch apart.  “May I?”

Aayla’s answer was to close that inch.  Siri leaned into the kiss, a thrill shooting up her spine.  She felt Aayla’s arms encircle her, steely muscle beneath soft skin, and they fell to the sheets.

They slept very little that night, but Siri’s insomnia was much improved.

* * *

The door to the _Manticore_ ’s observation deck opened.  Anakin saw the reflection of the lights beyond it appear in the deck window, temporarily dispelling the darkness of the room.  The figure silhouetted by that light was impossible to make out – except for a pair of glowing red eyes.

“General Skywalker,” Thrawn’s coolly modulated voice floated into the room.  “Traditionally, command-rank officers are expected to attend war briefings.”

“Sorry, Admiral,” Anakin said, not turning his gaze from the starfield.  “Wasn’t feeling very traditional today.  Did I miss anything important?”

The door closed behind Thrawn as the Chiss stepped fully into the room, plunging both of them back into darkness.  “We have received official confirmation of Queen Mother Dormé’s coronation, as well as their offer of formal alliance with the Jedi Order and their declaration of war on the CIS.”

“Funny,” Anakin muttered.  “Somehow I knew all that was going to happen.”

Thrawn came to stand alongside Anakin, his eyes very bright in the dimness.  “I appreciate that you have suffered a personal loss,” he said, his voice totally bereft of any perceptible pity.  “But a commander cannot remove himself to sulk in the dark whenever he encounters a setback.  It sets a poor example for the men.”

“A commander,” Anakin sighed.  “You told me not too long ago, Admiral, that I needed to make a choice.  Am I a Jedi, or am I a soldier?  Am I special, or not?”  He looked Thrawn in the eyes.  “You were right.  I do need to make that choice.  I’ve been a Jedi for more than ten years now, and it’s been good to me.  The Order’s taken me in, trained me, and watched over me.  But after everything that’s happened, I don’t know if I _can_ be a Jedi any longer.  Not really.  Not in the way that I’m supposed to be.”

Thrawn arched a blue-black eyebrow.  “What are you saying, General Skywalker?”

“I’m saying,” Anakin said, “that I’m a soldier.  And I’d appreciate it if you could help me figure out how to be a good one.  The best possible one.  For my men.”

Now Thrawn smiled – a small smile, cold, hard-edged.  But it was a smile nonetheless.  “I’m pleased to hear it, General.”  Gesturing at the door, he said, “Please, come with me.

“We have much work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are! The end of When in Hapes. It's time for some hashtag real talk.
> 
> You have probably noticed a bit of an update slip with this story. I apologize for that. Part of it has been life stuff, which has since smoothed out. The other part is that I've definitely had creative difficulties with this story. I went in trying to do a lot of things, and I'm not confident I carried them off well. But needs must we press forward. The biggest impetus for this story was my desire to see Dormé and Anakin make a clean, healthy break, for what's coming next in the series, and to avoid at all costs fridging Dormé. I feel I've done that, at the very least.
> 
> You may have noticed that we never definitively nailed down who the traitor or traitors are. That's intentional. Oalla, Tsarya, Garan, and Dormé will be back. The ramifications of this story will be felt going forward throughout the series.
> 
> The next story in the Venge series, which will see the return of our favorite unrepentant psychopath, will be up sometime next week. I hope to see you all there!


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